


bleeding out

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [6]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: CPTSD, Gen, Light Angst, Post Season 4, [pale tree voice] all power comes at a price little sapling, feat a griffon, feat canach trying to be a bro, hashtag commander needs therapy, i miss laranthir so he's here also being a good salad, indirectly protective Canach because we need more of that, sad bastard commander, wherein basing your reputation off of being unsettling comes with its drawbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23805871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Canach is of a mind to knock the commander off his pedestal with a friendly sparring match. Unfortunately, he stays down.
Series: roza [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	bleeding out

**Author's Note:**

> set between seasons 4 and 5. contains spoilers for season 4!

Proving to Roza that he needs to brush up on his melee combat skills, Canach muses, would be a lot easier if he stopped doing…

“ _Dead_ ,” says a whisper as skeletal fingers slide over the soldier’s skull and press to the curve of his eye sockets. They squeeze, just barely hinting at the true threat they pose, and he makes an uncomfortable noise.

That.

“Uh, the commander wins! Again.” Logan shoots Canach a helpless look, shrugging as if to say, _What can I do?_

Canach inhales a long, irritated breath, letting it out noisily. Yes, grabbing someone by the face and staring them down as you literally drain the life out of them is an effective way to kill them. No, it is not a _reliable_ one.

“He can’t keep doing that!” someone squawks, speaking his mind. They're immediately shushed.

“Have you really no other cards up your sleeve, Commander?” Canach calls out. “No one likes a one-trick fern hound.”

That earns a few quickly stifled mutterings amongst the gathering of Vigil and Pact soldiers around the ring. Roza turns his head, black eyes boring into Canach’s. He says in a low voice, “It’s the only trick I need.”

“Alright! Let’s take a break before the next round.” Logan’s voice booms across the yard, interrupting the disconcerted murmurs. “Remember, place your bets with the Warmaster, and your entries with me. Now is your only chance to test your mettle against the commander himself! No weapons, only skill.”

Canach crosses his arms, frowning as he watches the soldiers group and scatter. A training exercise is useful, yes, but not if the person he actually wants to train isn’t learning from it. Roza, for some absurd reason, seems to intimidate nearly everyone present, even if he is terribly short and scrawny and really not that frightening at all. All it takes once someone steps into the ring are a few whispered words and a spell to lock them in place, and then those long white fingers are reaching out and promising death.

Really, he should have been an elementalist. No one would be scared to beat up an _elementalist_.

Canach grumpily stalks through the camp as they take their break, searching for his backup plan. He finds him sitting on a couple of crates outside his tent, reading a book.

“Hello, Brother,” says Laranthir. “Don’t tell me you need my help already.”

Canach grunts at him. “Someone has to knock Roza off his pedestal, and thus far everyone here has failed miserably. So unfortunately, I must beseech your aid,” he replies. He gives a small mock bow to hide his discomfort. Admitting to defeat is not his specialty.

“Why do I have to be the one to fight him, again?” Laranthir peers at him over the frayed edge of his hardcover. _Woven Hearts II: Magic and Mystery_ , it reads. “I’d imagine you are perfectly capable of beating him to a pulp yourself.”

“Of course I am.” Canach’s voice is brusque. “But I asked you, didn’t I?”

Laranthir raises an eyebrow. After a few seconds pass and Canach still hasn’t answered his question, he pointedly looks back to his book.

Canach lets out a long-suffering sigh. Does Laranthir not understand how much it pricks at his pride to ask _him_ for help in the first place? Not to fight Roza specifically, but to deal with the fact that he… Ugh, fine. Fine.

“It won’t teach him anything if it comes from me,” he explains begrudgingly. “He’ll just get annoyed, or he’ll rot my armour off as payback. I need him to see how vulnerable he is when he’s weaponless, how defenseless. That he can be killed by any simple soldier on the battlefield.”

Laranthir looks up, catching his tone. Canach stares him down.

~*~

“All I’m saying is that you could do with some close combat experience.” Canach’s voice is all smugness, curling and coiled. “Train with a more effective melee weapon. Maybe even your fists—a few friendly punches to the head never hurt anybody.”

“I don’t have _time_ for that, Canach!” Roza, for his part, does not seem to be in a similarly bantering mood. The quickness of his stride is as dismissive as it is efficient—but as Canach has both a height advantage and an equal ability to walk quickly, he is easily keeping pace.

“And if Kralkatorrik decides to get up close and personal with you?” Canach presses. “What are you going to do, reanimate what’s left of your pride to fight with?”

Roza pauses—barely for a second before he keeps moving. “It won’t come to that,” he says.

His voice is low with certainty, but that does not mean he is certain. Canach knows he’s not.

“I just think you could do with a little practice,” he suggests, evening his tone.

Roza’s eyes flick to him and then away again. It is a difficult thing to notice, especially as he is holding his head still, but Canach does nevertheless. He frowns.

Roza’s subsequent refusal is not unexpected. “Can’t,” he replies shortly, and nothing more.

Canach remains silent. Not an unexpected answer, perhaps, but that does not mean he has to be happy with it. Hopefully, Roza won’t go anywhere near that thing’s face.

He finds him an hour after the battle, nearly dead in the snow.

~*~

Canach levels his gaze. “Let’s just say that I have a vested interest in his wellbeing.”

Laranthir gives him a long, searching look. He barely even has to; Canach doesn’t know what it is exactly that he’s feeling, but it is out there, and Laranthir is close enough to sense it. After a minute he sighs softly, setting his book down.

“What makes you think Roza will take me seriously?” he asks, although his tone is free of any real intent to argue.

“He’ll listen to you,” Canach replies. “He may even respect you.”

Laranthir quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t think he respects anyone,” he says, amusement lacing through his words.

“Exactly,” says Canach.

~*~

Roza is with his griffon when they get back, running his hand through its snowy white feathers and murmuring to it in a low voice. He seems to be trying to calm it from yet another one of its bouts of agitation—the damn thing is high-strung on a good day and can’t see worth shite to boot; it had probably gotten stressed out from being so near the crowd. Most people don’t see why it follows Roza of all bitchy sylvari around, but Canach’s opinion is that they're just two peas in a pod. (Besides, the beast has clawed him in the face on more than one occasion—it’s like it and the commander are meant to be).

“Laranthir!” Roza’s voice is touched with surprise. “I thought you were on vacation.”

“Just as much as you are, it seems, Commander.” Laranthir gives a short bow. “But I take it the notion of rest excites neither of us as much as it should.”

Roza snorts lightly. “You be good, Eirwen,” he says to the griffon, pressing his forehead to its feathery one. It hoots at him, butting his head, and then flies off with a curl of its wing.

“It’s good to see you.” Roza sounds surprisingly genuine as he addresses Laranthir, making his way over. “Is there anything you need from me?”

“Are you being… sarcastic?” Canach is intrigued. “I’m sorry, I truly can’t tell.”

Roza breaks face to shoot him a quick glare. Laranthir chuckles.

“Not as such,” he replies to Roza’s question. “But Canach mentioned something about a training exercise. I wagered I might as well try my luck against the famed commander while I have the chance. After all, I don’t have much to lose besides some coin.”

“Oh.” Roza looks surprised. “You want to… Alright. Sign up with Logan.”

He stumbles just slightly over his words, although his expression as he watches Laranthir leave is worth treasuring. Canach stares at him smugly.

Roza notices after a few seconds, and shoots him a disconcerted glance. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” Canach brushes some imaginary dirt off his armour. “I’m just looking forward to this, is all.”

~*~

“And… there goes another one. Oh my. Alright, next up is Grand Warmaster Laranthir of the Wild! This’ll be a fight to watch, folks. Place your bets now.”

Laranthir hands his sword to Canach, hilt first. “Any tips?”

“Hit him hard enough and he’ll fold like paper. If he feels trapped, he’ll put his shields up. Don’t let him.” Canach accepts the blade, then frowns slightly. “Laranthir. The biggest blow should be to his pride, I hope that goes without saying.”

Laranthir’s eyes curl at the edges. “He’s my brother too,” is all he says in reply. He claps Canach on the shoulder, then heads to the ring.

“Grand Warmaster, please tell me you’ll try to be a challenge!” Roza calls out as he steps inside.

Laranthir’s slight smile is easy to notice from Canach’s proximity. “That reminds me of the first thing you ever said to me as a fresh Vigil recruit, Commander,” he says placidly. “If you lose, I think I may tell everyone here what that was.”

That statement causes immediate ripples through the crowd, especially amongst the Vigil soldiers. Roza’s smirk falters, just by a fraction, but he brushes it away completely as he readies himself into a fighting stance.

He’s already lost, really. Laranthir has earned his place as Almorra's second-in-command and knows how to fight a spellcaster, and Roza has no official close combat training. There is a reason why he avoids sparring with people. He has sharpened himself over the years into a scythe; meant to kill, not maim.

His hand reaches out, spindly fingers spreading to atrophy, but Laranthir does not try to avoid it or interrupt him as others had. He joins his hand to Roza’s, watches those eyes widen minutely, and _twists._

“ _Ah!_ ” Roza hisses, doubling over. A bold of necrotic energy shoots Laranthir in the midsection, knocking him back and sending him rolling several feet. Unnatural sand rises from snow, crawling to guard unprotected bark, and Roza’s eyes turn into two burning points of blackness.

Well, Canach thinks as several soldiers in the front row instinctively lean away, as least he’s taking this seriously.

The fight is surprisingly even. Roza doesn’t need his weapons to use most of his magic, and Canach will grudgingly admit (under a large amount of pressure) that it is easy to see how he got it into his head that he has an affinity for this sort of thing. “This sort of thing” being fighting like a rabid demon when backed into a corner, of course. It is not something that Canach sees all too often nowadays, but he remembers the sure, calculating way Roza can move, cold rationality always his fallback point rather than the unbridled rage some warriors use to fuel themselves. Once he learns how someone fights, he adapts with alarming speed. And he learns quickly.

But it seems Laranthir is trying his damndest not to give him the opportunity. He moves faster and faster, throwing blow after blow, not letting up nor giving Roza time enough to analyze his pattern. A sharp incantation is cut off by a strike to the head, quickly followed by a low kick when he tries to get back up. Canach notices more than a few of Roza’s usual spells sputter and fade, the few that he feels are safe enough to be nonlethal not enough to match Laranthir blow for blow.

Good. He needs to remember how to _fight_ , not set things alight in necrotic flame and watch them shrivel and die.

Slowly, his defensive spells rear up more than his attacks. Slowly, Laranthir pushes his growing edge. And then finally, Roza is thrown on the ground, hard, and the sand around his body whispers into nothingness. He tries to get up, bracing himself on his elbow, but then gasps raggedly and collapses.

“Are you… finally spent?” Laranthir pants. He bares his teeth in a grin, more a grimace, and adds, “No, that can’t be all. Not for the famed Pact commander.”

He’s taunting, trying to give Roza back his edge. Oddly kind, and possibly a way to throw the fight, Canach realizes. Or to check how much he really has left in him.

Roza’s fingers curl in the snow. He doesn’t respond, but he manages to bring himself up on his hands and knees.

“You’ll get back up,” Laranthir says. “Won’t you, soldier?”

Roza’s head jerks up. He stares at Laranthir, expression unreadable, and then slowly bows his head. He says nothing.

For long enough that unease begins to settle in Canach’s stomach despite himself. He speaks, breaking the hush that has fallen over the yard with the crackle of his voice. “Roz—”

“ _Enough_.” Roza’s voice cracks like a whip. The sheer sharpness of it is jarring. “You’ve all had your fun watching. I yield.”

A low murmur ripples through the crowd, and then people begin to hesitantly applaud. Canach winces. Laranthir steps forward with one hand extended, but Roza hisses something, and it falls to his side limply.

He gets up with as much dignity as he can seemingly muster, although his back is hunched and his gait is unsteady. The soldiers who move to congratulate Laranthir with warm words and hearty pats shrink back to make way as he leaves the ring.

“Are we sure he’s all sylvari,” Canach hears someone nearby mutter, “or is there something else in there?”

Oh, the easy turn of a crowd. Morons. Canach grits his teeth.

Roza disappears into the throng of people, the crowd parting and sealing behind him like stitched flesh. Canach cannot see where he limps off to, even when he frowns and cranes his neck. Damn norn and charr in the way. He has half a mind to just lob a grenade at them and let what happens happen.

He does spot Logan, frustratingly, radiating regal self-righteousness as he catches Canach’s eye (despite his best efforts) and jerks his head in the direction that Roza had disappeared. _Yes, I know_ , Canach wants to tell that pinched expression. _After all, it’s not like anyone else is going to do anything_.

He muscles his way through the crowd—when had so many people come to watch? They weren’t here earlier—until it breaks, and scans the yard for the familiar frayed edges of a black garment. He finds only a scattered handful of soldiers and merchants, emptiness and the tall stone walls of Thunderhead Keep stretching up behind them.

Canach heaves a sigh. Muttering under his breath about asinine brooding habits and less than ideal locales, he sets out for the mountain pass.

~*~

A good hour later of hiking through knee-high snow later, Canach is just about ready to give up. He has one last idea, although it is dubious, not to mention perilous and probably a complete waste of time. Still, he figures as he searches for a foothold against snow-covered stone, any stupid idea is worth trying once. It’s worked for Roza.

After the most cold and strenuous ten minutes of his life, Canach hauls himself up to an acceptably high ledge. He rolls over onto his back, panting at the stark, cloudless sky. He’s just catching his breath, of course. He could get right back up and scale the rest of the mountain if he wanted to. Of course.

When he has enough energy back in his limbs to wrestle a hypothetical ornery owl, he sits up, puts his fingers to his lips, and whistles shrilly. Then he waits, settling against cold rock.

He is listening for the flutter of heavy wingbeats, but what comes first is an abominable screech, piercing his eardrums and rattling through his skull. Canach barely has enough time to heft his shield up before sharp talons dig into its bark, sinking dangerously deep.

“Back, you ghastly thing!” he shouts. “It’s me! I am not an enemy.’

The griffon shrieks at him again, its beady red eyes alight with farsighted fervour. Canach ducks behind his shield once more, just managing to avoid another rake of its claws.

“Eirwen, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps, “I’m the one who called you. This is _really_ quite unnecessary.”

She pauses at the sound of her name, head cocking and talons poised to strike again. Canach lowers his shield cautiously. When no attack is immediately forthcoming, he straightens up, allowing her to study him.

She sticks her head out and sniffs him, her sharp beak inches from his bark. Canach stays still, praying that she wont be responsible for yet another gash on his face. Roza, being the ass that he is, refuses to train her, insisting that her attacking literally every living being that isn’t him is “funny.”

Finally, Eirwen draws away. She clicks her beak at him in annoyance, as if demanding why he deigned himself worthy to call her from the heavens.

“I know, believe me,” Canach replies. “I don’t want to work with you either. But I need you to take me to your master. He’ll stop brooding, and I’ll stop bothering you. What say you? Win-win.”

The griffon swivels her head upside down. She probably hadn’t understood a single word of that.

“Take me to Roza, you ornery, glorified owl,” Canach says irritatedly.

She hisses at his tone, but seems to understand “Roza,” at least. She stamps her front talons down, feathers fluffing in agitation.

“Yes, I know,” says Canach. He is gamely trying to ignore how idiotic he feels from talking to an _animal_. “I can help him, or at least, I hope so. Do you understand that? _Help_. Help Roza.”

She eyes him suspiciously. “Roo,” she says, flicking an ear back.

Canach holds out a hand, approaching her slowly. “Right after this, we can go back to being mortal enemies.”

She doesn’t shy away from him, although her head follows his movements in a frankly unnerving manner. Canach’s hand meets white feathers, and after a long beat in which he waits for her to shake him off, he slowly climbs onto her back.

She chirps and stretches, getting used to his weight, before shooting him one last long, piercing glare, as if to reinstate that their truce is temporary. Then her head swivels back around, and Canach hugs her sides with his knees as she hoots and takes off.

~*~

Eirwen flies him to the ruins of an empty high tower, inaccessible from the main road. The process of getting there had involved a series of short climbs, hops, and glides, and quite frankly, Canach is a little motion sick from it. His only warning that they have reached their destination is a low hoot, and then he is being ungracefully shaken off like an irritating bug. He hits the ground hard, managing to duck into a roll at the last moment.

“Insufferable! Insufferable creature,” he hisses as he stands to his feet, dizziness and nausea rendering his movements unsteady. “You and Roza deserve each other.”

She screeches at him, flapping her wings in his face rudely before taking off close enough to nearly take his head off with a talon.

Canach grumbles profanities under his breath as he glares up at the tower. At its highest point he can make out what is left of a small square window, its edges unevenly knocked out. The chances of Roza being up there instead of conveniently at the bottom are high, doubly so if he considers the damn griffon’s wont to make things as difficult as possible for him. Sighing, he readies himself for another climb.

“Why is it always me chasing after you?” he mutters as he grabs onto a thick jut of stone at the base of the tower. “‘Canach, nobody is going to _tell_ you to check up on the commander, but you’re going to do it anyways, because he damn well needs you to and Pale Mother knows he won’t take care of himself.’”

And also, maybe, because he feels just a little bit guilty.

~*~

Roza can’t breathe.

It had felt like he’d been holding his breath. When Laranthir had knocked him to the ground and all but pinned him there with his words, when he had stumbled to open air afterwards, keeping a quick pace and holding his head high and pushing his breath down, down, _down._ Into his chest, locked away.

 _Steady breaths, soldier_. Steady mind, Commander. _Take a moment, recruit_. Get a hold of yourself.

 _Stay_. Down. _Breathe_. Shut up. Be quiet. _Stop_. Stop.

Deal with it later.

And now, he finds, staring across the room at cool, dark stone while wind whips against his bark, he can’t bring it out to do just that. It’s stuck in his chest, caught by the prickling of his lungs, unable to escape. Whatever “it” even is.

 _Useless_. Can’t even identify it. Can help everyone but himself. _Weak_. Truly, on the inside.

The wall has no answers. Roza doesn’t expect any. He tries a smile, and it remains unchanging. Cold. Lifeless. Roza may as well be looking into a mirror, he muses, and then laughs at the sheer banality of the thought. Canach would like that one.

He should be getting back to the keep. Running away a sore loser can’t be a good look on him. He wonders how many more times he’ll have to do it—Balthazar, Kralkatorrik, and then whom? The people he’s supposed to trust? Laranthir? The Pact he himself founded?

He picks at the prickling in his lungs, touching a hand to his chest. _Come out_ , he tries to tell it. _Come out and let me fight you now, so I won’t fail to later_.

 _Get back up_. Get up. _You of all people can’t afford to—_

A noise below the windowsill gets Roza’s attention. Frowning, he slowly makes his way over, hand stretched out cautiously.

“Who’s there?” he calls out. If it is no one, then it is no one to see him talking to the wind like a fool. “You have five seconds to answer before I kill you.”

Another noise. A pause, and then—“Lovely, just lovely. I climb all the way up to this wretched place just for _that_ sort of greeting. I don’t know what else I expected from you.”

“Canach?” Roza rushes to the broken stone, forgoing cautiousness. Half a dozen feet below, clutching onto the building like a particularly ugly creeping vine, is indeed Canach. “What are you doing?! Hold on, I’ll help you up before you fall.”

“Why thank you, o Imperious Commander.” Canach prattles on in a familiar sardonic twang as Roza reaches for the thick, dark vines encircling the base of the tower with his magic, blackening and stretching them. “Truly, I am humbled that you deign to help me, far as I am beneath you.”

“That had better not have been a pun.” A silent call, and they rise to meet him, slithering towards Canach. “Let go.”

Canach visibly shudders. “Learn that one from Mordremoth, did you?” he asks, although he releases his handholds.

Roza doesn’t reply to that. Slowly, he lifts Canach into the room with him, then lets the vines wither and die. “There are stairs,” he says.

Canach shrugs. “Thought I’d make a more dramatic entrance.”

Roza runs a hand over his head and sighs, slumping into the single uncomfortable chair in the room. “What do you want?” he asks bluntly.

Canach lifts his chin. “I came to check up on you,” he says, voice low. “Are you alright?”

Roza’s lips part, and the thing in his lungs, for a sharp instant, tries to burst. Damn question. Damn _Canach_ , sounding so honest out of absolutely nowhere. Roza folds his hands neatly over his lap.

“I’m fine.”

“Roza.” Canach’s gaze is knowing and heavy. Roza’s fingers tense, then forcibly relax.

 _That’s ‘Commander’ to you_ , he almost wants to say, falsely petulant. But he won’t find relief in throwing nubbed barbs, not anymore.

“Canach,” he returns, sharpening the word to avoid having to come up with a real answer. From the slight narrowing of Canach’s eyes, he notices.

There is a moment of opportunity which passes that he can take. To grab the excuse of a fight, to cut and bleed with his mouth and give up on Roza, leave him all alone in this cold, dark tower. He waits, and Canach squints, and they both watch that moment flicker by.

Canach crosses his arms. When he speaks, his voice is unnaturally cautious. “What Laranthir said…” He leaves the sentence open.

Roza barely remembers what Laranthir said. “Nothing,” he says dismissively. “It just… hit a nerve, that’s all. I got over it.”

Canach arches a thorny eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Roza scowls at him.

“I mean clearly,” Canach clarifies, “it hit a nerve.”

Roza drops his gaze, and after a few seconds lets out a low, rasping laugh. It grates against the thing now in his throat, pricking itself on its way out. “Am I that obvious?” he asks.

“Not to everyone.” Canach, who has been watching him carefully, glances around. He seats himself on the short stone table beside Roza, leaning his weight back. His face seizes, as if it is caught between two expressions and unable to decide on which one to pick. After a few seconds of visible struggle, he asks, gruffly and extremely awkwardly, “Do you… want to talk about it or… something?”

Roza snorts. “No.”

“Thank the Tree.” Canach sighs, long and somehow still arrogant. “I don’t think I could Kasmeer my way into pretending to be your therapist.”

“I wouldn’t burden anyone with _that_ job.” Roza shuts his eyes, breathing low. He can still feel the thing inside of him, although now it has shrunken down a little. He can feel Canach, right next to him, posturing for all the world as if he wouldn’t care less if Roza fell out of the tower and died painfully, but radiating quiet concern all the same. It almost makes him smile. Almost.

“I wonder sometimes,” he admits, opening his eyes, “If I actually got corrupted by Mordremoth and just didn’t notice.”

Canach turns to look at him.

“After all,” he continues, “People still think I was trying to make myself Risen, back when Zhaitan was alive. Maybe they're right. Maybe I want to get tainted by an Elder Dragon.”

Even at the thought, he shudders. It takes little effort for him to remember how Mordremoth felt in his mind, slimy and far too clever and wrong, dangerous, right but _wrong_. Nothing like another sylvari. Nothing like Aurene.

“Does it ever get to you?” Canach asks. “All of their assumptions.”

Roza scoffs. “No,” he says, and they both know it is a lie.

After a beat, he throws out, he doesn’t know why—maybe to feel alive from the rise of it— “You’re more Mordrem than me, anyways. Prickly, estranged from Mother, untrustworthy… The list goes on.”

It comes out wrong, and he can feel the edges of Canach’s offense. “I should just leave you here,” he mutters, the statement also twisted sideways. “You deserve it.”

A laugh squeezes its way out of Roza’s throat. “I know.”

Another beat. “I didn’t mean that.”

Roza doesn’t reply.

~*~

Roza has to call Eirwen to pick them up from the tower. Canach complains about it, expectantly, although in an oddly pointed way, and she doesn’t attempt to claw his face off as Roza had secretly hoped she would. He’d have called her off eventually, of course, but… Ah, oh well. It would have been funny.

“How did you get up here, anyhow?” he asks as Canach clings on to the griffon for deal life. She hates it, he can tell, but is allowing it so far as Roza is on her back as well.

“Let’s just say I had help,” Canach replies cryptically. Eirwen climbs to gain altitude, and he swears under his breath, tightening his grip on her feathers.

“Hold on to me, if you _must_ cling like a sapling.” Roza can’t hide his amusement at his predicament. “Else she’ll throw you off.”

“Hold on to _you?_ You’re far too scrawny, thank you very much. You’ll snap like a twig and I’ll fall to my death.”

“Fine then.” Roza’s voice is curter than he would like. Abrupt bitterness curdles in his stomach. Of course Canach wouldn’t want his help. Of course he thinks he’s too weak too—

“For fuck’s sake, Roza,” Canach mutters, and carefully grabs him around the waist.

Roza tries not to notice the startled warmth sprinkling his chest, or the way it seems to melt the thing inside of him, just a little.

They touch down in the yard, now mostly clear of soldiers. Eirwen stamps and fusses until Canach gets off of her, and Roza croons to her and promises her a treat, yes, for putting up with such an annoying, thorny cactus.

“Sometimes, it’s obvious that no one’s ever punched you in the face,” is Canach’s response to that. Roza flips him a rude gesture.

They walk through the keep at first aimlessly, and then towards the mess hall. Canach is hungry, and whether the feeling poking Roza in the stomach is his or his own, it’s annoying, and he wants it gone.

People give him a wide berth, as usual. Canach watches a few people shift away from them, and the third time it happens, frowns.

“It’s not because we’re sylvari, it’s just me,” Roza assures him in a low voice. The frown doesn’t leave his face, however, so he just rolls his eyes and shifts his attention to a basket of bread rolls.

“Take the whole thing,” Canach murmurs. His eyes are on a charr who had passed by them a minute ago, muttering something Roza hadn’t deigned to hear.

(He had heard. But some people have been prickly since Kralkatorrik, too on edge to believe the end of such a huge threat, and it’s fine. It’s fine.)

He takes the basket.

They sit at the end of one of the long tables, empty chairs scattered to their left. Five minutes into a loose, absurd conversation with Canach that despite all its pointlessness still makes a smile want to tug at the corner of Roza’s mouth, a familiar presence approaches them.

“Laranthir,” Roza greets, surprised. Laranthir inclines his head, crossing his hands neatly behind his back.

“Commander,” he returns. His eyes flit to Canach, and they exchange a brief nod. “I’ve come to apologize. Earlier today… ”

Roza holds up a hand, cutting him off. “There’s no need. It was a good fight, Grand Warmaster. Thank you for the experience.”

Laranthir blinks, not expecting that response. After a second, he replies, stumbling somewhat, “You as well, Commander. It was… very unique.”

Roza gives him a wan smile. And quite the show for everyone watching, he is sure. Well, it’s not every day he gets to be humiliated in front of dozens of soldiers who look to him for leadership, but at least it was a new experience.

“Must you both be so formal?” Canach groans, cutting into the conversation like a particularly jagged knife. “Sit with us for a while, Laranthir. At least to save me from this one’s dreary monologues.”

Laranthir glances around. “Well, I suppose I am on leave.” He seats himself with a small smile, shoulders slumping away some of their stiffness. Roza is tempted to look with his mind instead of his eyes, to reach out and see just how much of their initial friendship has weathered the years of dragon-slaying and distance. He doesn’t.

That particular sixth sense, however, flows both ways. “I must say,” Laranthir begins, and if there is some gentleness to his voice that there hadn’t been before, surely Roza is imagining it. “You’ve come a long way since you first joined the Vigil. Roza.”

He looks up at his name. Laranthir is smiling at him, faint but undoubtedly there, and he finds himself, surprisingly, itching to return the expression.

“About that.” There is a certain purpose to Canach’s voice that is dangerous. He leans forwards. “You never did say: What _was_ the first thing he ever said to you? He lost the fight, so _do_ feel free to share with the class.”

Roza groans, dropping his head back. Of course. Of course Canach wouldn’t just conveniently forget about that.

Laranthir purses his lips, amused. “I did say I would, didn’t I?” he weighs out loud. He glances at Roza, however, who, after a brief moment of contemplation, waves his consent. Contained harm, is the idea.

“Alright.” Laranthir’s smile grows into what could only be described as a smirk. “Fair is fair, after all. As I remember it, he said: ‘A secondborn? Does that mean you’re better than me?’ I believe it was something of a challenge.”

There is a brief, _brief_ moment in which the world is blessedly silent. Then Roza can _feel_ Canach’s delighted shock, the implications of that no doubt unravelling in his mind at a startling speed. Like a ball of yarn dropped down a hill—Roza doesn’t have a chance in hell of halting it.

“Shut up,” he mutters anyways.

“Oh, Roza, my _dear_ ,” Canach crows, “I have said _nothing_ yet.”

Roza can feel a headache begin to press into his temples. He sighs deeply, readying himself for what is most likely going to be weeks of torment.

“You never had a superiority complex, you had an _inferiority_ complex!” Canach’s voice is far too loud and grating. Roza looks around for a dead rodent to animate. “That’s what your entire attitude towards me was founded on for _years!_ Oh, by the _Tree_ , this is too good. Laranthir, I cannot thank you enough.”

“ _Yes_ , thank you, Laranthir.” Roza speaks into his hand, now spread over his face. “Thank you so much for freely gambling with that bit of information for no rhyme or reason at all.”

“Happy to help, Commander.” Laranthir sounds a bit bemused, but not regretful in the slightest. “Although might I say, I’m sure you meant it rhetorically, but considering today…”

Roza groans, thinks for a moment, and then groans again. Irritatingly, infuriatingly, the sheer amount of smugness radiating from Canach is making that competitive itch rise under his skin again. No, Roza is _above_ that now. _Above him, more like_ , he thinks, then sighs at himself.

Maybe if he rots Canach’s armour off he’ll feel better.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this please tell me what you think!! thank you!
> 
> [song for this fic!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3VFzuUiTGw)


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